


piece by piece (and the world falls apart)

by eustomas



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, M/M, lapslock, look how much i can write about catboys, woltober
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26758651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eustomas/pseuds/eustomas
Summary: there are ashes on your tongue and blood on your hands. you raise your sword. you fight, you fight and you fight.you do not wish to fight.---or, alternatively, woltober 2020 prompt fills
Relationships: Damien Vanih & Fleance Lyrhiri, Esteem/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Warrior of Light & Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 10





	1. wish

**Author's Note:**

> WASSUP, ITS WOLTOBER APPARENTLY AND I FOUND OUT YESTERDAY SO ITS TIME TO IMPROV SOME PROMPT FILLS, ENJOY

  1. wish



il mheg lives up to its name in full — it is vibrant and colorful and bursting with life, laughter tinkling from every brush and tree; it is a permanent shine of glitter in the air, a shimmer of something whimsical accompanied by the flutter of pixie wings, a sky of rainbows and eternal sunshine, relentless warmth on his skin.

it shouldn’t be. 

it wasn't.

except everything went wrong after mount gulg and now this is the aftermath they face — the light returned, easy as that. as if everything up till now was for naught, as if they haven't given enough already, as if _fleance_ hasn’t— 

“oh, blue! how wonderful to see you!” damien feels a flutter next to his ear, the sweet chime of a mischievous pixie voice right above his head. a faint weight settles on his shoulder, familiar and welcome.

“ys daen,” he smiles, “it’s good to see you as well.”

ys daen appears as small as any other pixie, the tiniest crown of woven teal flowers on their head today. they look as carefree as ever, tossing a pixie-sized cloth pouch from one hand to the other almost impatiently.

“well? well? have you anything new for me?” their voice is eager and he knows better than to beat around the bush.

“it took a lot of effort to bring them all the way here, you know,” damien reaches into the satchel hanging at his side and pulls out an equally small piece of cloth, carefully folded over. 

ys daen immediately darts for it.

“ah-ah-ah!” he chides, pulling his hand away. "don't forget our deal!"

"oh, at least let me have a peek first," they pout, sullen. it's adorable. "or tell me! tell me what they are!"

damien looks to the left, where ys daen’s beautiful garden is. an abundance of flowers in all shapes and sizes and colors grows there, enchanting. it is a splendor unrivaled in all of norvrandt — a garden where, as of very recently, now grows a tall nymeia lily. it is far larger than any he has ever seen on eorzea, the blossom nearly as big as ys daen themself.

“it’s a different type of lily this time,” damien carefully unfolds the cloth. there lay a copious amount of small, round black seeds, unassuming. “this one blossoms red.”

ys daen picks up a seed to appraise as they hum, clearly interested, wordlessly urging him to continue.

“they grow in distant lands in my world, far to the east.” he folds it over again when they put the seed back. 

ys daen is muttering under their breath, something about the east, something about needing more red in the garden, something about arrangements. damien does not hear; he only looks at his hand and thinks, _yotsuyu, yotsuyu, yotsuyu._

“they’re called spider lilies.” it comes out barely a whisper. he has to focus, can't afford to be distracted now.

there is no time to mourn the dead; to rest and heal from all their losses. there’s only ever more to do, more crises to avert, more blood to spill, and now, now the hourglass is almost up and there is no solution, no salvation, no more _time_ — 

“they make you sad, these spider lilies.” ys daen’s voice rings clear as a bell. it makes damien sober, remember where he is. he looks at them and shakes his head in response; gathers any stray thoughts and throws them deep in the abyss, away, for another time, always for another time.

he came here for a reason.

“and what is it that you have for me in exchange?”

the clumsy change of subject is happily ignored, as the question makes ys daen grin wide, excited in a way he’s never seen them be before. 

“i've got magic! old, powerful magic, but one that even you can do!” they wave the little pouch in his face, as if that's meant to tell him anything.

he raises an eyebrow in silent question and he swears he can see ys daen _vibrating_ with excitement. they look around quickly, eyes darting this way and that, and lean close to his face, conspiratorial, as if to whisper a secret.

“it’s a _wish_.” 

“a wish?”

“you need only scatter the dust and utter the words of your desire, and it will come true!” ys daen drops the pouch in his still outstretched hand, and it is so, so small. 

it weighs nothing, a scrap of cloth that looks barely worthy of attention. he can scarcely believe the words. 

_pixies cannot lie._

“it is very, very ancient pixie magic — you have to be extremely careful what words you pick!”

“this can make anything you wish for come true?”

at this, ys daen wavers. they look at him with a sorrowful look in their eyes, one that makes him uncomfortable in its knowledge.

“the bigger the wish, the higher the price, blue. take as much as you give. do not forget the rules we and our magic are bound to.” they pick up the cloth with the spider lily seeds and lift it over their shoulder like a little knapsack.

it’s the most warning a pixie has ever given him.

“thank you, ys daen.” they’ve already gone by the time he finds his voice to say his thanks.

  
  


(that night, if you can even call it that, damien leans against the railing of the balcony in the pendants and scatters a rainbow of colorful glitter in the wind.

_i wish—_

_i wish—_

_i wish—_ )

((it is not too long after that they walk though amaurot, the sky a crimson blaze, fire and ruin and oblivion all around them, death snapping at their heels.

he watches, helpless, as the scions fall one by one; until he, too, falls, and fleance is the last one left standing, the last one left to fight, to bleed for their cause until there is nothing of him left. it leaves him furious, wrath burning in his veins like acid, but his body won't listen, won't move, won't let him join, help, _fight_ — 

and then — then his wish comes true.

it starts with g’raha tia working a miracle of summoning with the last of his strength and ends with a blade of light through hades’ chest and one last plea from one who could’ve been a friend, once. 

“the light must’ve dispersed when you made your final attack against hades,” y’shtola says and relief almost makes damien's knees buckle.

he rushes ahead, sword clattering forgotten to the ground, and drapes himself over fleance inelegantly, holding on to him as if to make sure he truly won't disappear, won't shatter into a million refractions of light. he clutches at the fabric of his haori, red silk soft in his hands, until his knuckles are white.

“you're alive,” he rasps out, breathless. “you're alive, you're fine. fleance, you—” he chokes on something that might be a sob maybe, a cry he refuses to let out just yet.

he tangles gloved fingers carefully in fleance’s hair, gentle, careful not to snag any of the strands. his heart beats wildly in his chest and fleance gives a wet laugh, face pressed against damien’s shoulder.

“looks like i’ll still get the chance to teach you how to fish properly, huh?”

damien can't help but laugh, relieved, so relieved, the first breath of air to fill his lungs in days.

“you promised me a date in the diadem, didn't you?” damien lets go just a bit, leans back just enough, so that fleance can see his expression; delight, elation, exhilaration, a thousand synonyms and more for what is written clear on his face, in his smile.))

(((his wish comes true. 

the price for it is a star-shower in the middle of the crystarium two days after.)))


	2. pulse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aris: hey, look at my miner glam, its sexy  
> me:  
> me: im going to write damien having a meltdown over this, thanks
> 
> and here we are folks

2\. pulse

it is only with begrudging acceptance that damien willingly spends time in the rising stones. 

it is their headquarters now, of course, so he’s duty bound to stay, but mor dhona always leaves him with an uncomfortable chill he cannot shake. the imperial base barely a stone’s throw away, the giant crystal tower looming in the distance, the enormous ruins in the lake, the dragon corpse wrapped around them as a trophy — there's an endless slew of things here to make his skin crawl.

but sometimes staying in the rising stones is necessary, and so he does. it’s not much to look at now — the stone walls and jagged crystals lost their novelty after the twentieth or so time that he’s had to return here.

a summons from tataru had come for him hours prior, so here he is now, sitting at one of the little parlor tables, their receptionist nowhere in sight.

“they don't usually take this long on their mining ventures,” f’lhaminn speaks from a little ways away, slicing apples evenly to busy her hands. “i’m starting to get a little worried...”

“fleance is accompanying her, isn’t he? i'm sure they’re fine.” damien has resigned to just waiting for their eventual return, ignoring the uneasiness in his gut as best he can. 

tataru’s first mining excursion had been more than eventful. he remembers frantically yelling for her with fleance, how she’d screamed and how the morbol had gotten entirely too close for comfort. fleance had been quicker then, bowstring drawn and arrows loose before damien had even taken two steps forward. after that, they’d all agreed — no more mining without supervision. fleance had volunteered to join her whenever he can, having picked up an interest in it himself.

damien imagines the scions without tataru and it leaves a foul taste in his mouth. he shakes his head to dispel the image.

the half-blank piece of paper in front of him demands his attention again, the ink dried and waiting for more. he should write home more often, he thinks. he has been slacking recently.

it is then that the heavy wooden doors open, tataru’s excited chatter flooding the halls, fleance laughing alongside her.

“you really did that!?” tataru asks, disbelieving.

“oh, if only you could’ve seen the look on his face!” fleance answers, laughter at the edge of his voice.

damien turns to look at the commotion. distantly, he registers the pen slipping from his hand, maybe sees the ink blot appearing in the middle of the parchment. it’s hard to recall.

tataru is dressed in her classical mining garb — the protective red hat and her trademark pink top; the small bandana wrapped around her neck. same gloves, same boots, same goggles. typical tataru when she’s out mining, just like the first time.

damien has not had the chance to see fleance when he’s out with her, prone to avoiding the rising stones as often as he is and their travels and assignments taking them to different corners of eorzea. he feels like someone should've warned him, should've told him of the coming danger.

“damien! you’re already here!?” tataru calls when she notices him, and he desperately hopes his face is some semblance of normal. he offers her a nod in response, not trusting to open his mouth.

twelve above, this is— 

“hey there, handsome,” fleance throws a cheeky wink his way, one hand on his hips. damien sits very, very still and says nothing.

because the thing is, he hasn't seen fleance when he's out with tataru before. he has only ever seen him in his armor, either a bow in hand or a cane, modest robes and protective gear, never— 

never _this_.

this: loose fabric barely covering his chest, slipping dangerously low, bare skin exposed. a black vest rests on top of it, accentuating a slim waist and sinuous figure. there are no sleeves; and damien knows, fleance is an archer. archery requires a lot of arm strength. 

he’s an archer himself, fuck, he’s aware of this, of the strength necessary to draw the string and loose an arrow with enough velocity to _kill_ hundreds of yalms away _._

it just never occurred to him before, he never considered— 

“welcome back you two!” f’lhaminn’s voice rings out, full of relief. 

damien sucks in a sharp breath, dizzy. he feels his pulse thundering abnormally loud; his ears twitch, obvious. he hopes nobody notices.

fleance looks in f’lhaminn’s direction and his expression lights up when he sees the apples arranged neatly on a platter, a variety of berries among them. he immediately darts to the counter, grabbing one of them lightning fast and popping it in his mouth, a stain of purple on his fingers.

that display alone is enough to make damien choke on his tongue, but then, then he sees _back,_ lithe, corded muscle; an expanse of sunkissed skin from being out for hours and a whimper almost manages to leave his throat, a noise akin to that of a coeurl yowling in distress. 

tataru approaches him, he thinks; there’s the footsteps in his general direction, but he can't turn to look at her, can't move, can't make the bells ringing in his mind _stop_. he keeps staring at fleance eating the stupid apple slices and gesturing animatedly as he lays down a handful of rocks on the counter. 

_arms—_

he feels his sanity fly somewhere out the window.

“damien, are you quite alright?” he barely hears the question. he makes a noise he hopes can be interpreted as a confirmation in response.

fleance turns to look his way and he grins, making something lodge itself deep between damien’s ribs. 

“didn't think i’d get to see you of all people here today.” he makes a playful come-hither motion, beckoning him to come closer. damien does not notice it when he gets up, already a step forward.

“that’s what i wanted to talk to you about earlier before we set out,” tataru chimes in, jumping on one of the barstools with surprising dexterity. she looks at damien with a piercing look for a moment, calculating, measuring, before she turns back to fleance. 

“you’d better put on something warm, because you two are going to camp dragonhead next,” she declares gravely. 

at some point alphinaud joins them, explains the intricacies of their mission, talks at length about ishgardian politics, the high-ranking official who wants to meet with them, why this is so important.

damien does not hear a word.


	3. flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introducing more wols, hell yeah

  1. flowers



ul'dah is always jarring every time they visit, but the sapphire avenue exchange is on a different level of nightmarish altogether.

the city itself is constantly bustling with energy, a flurry of noises and colors and aromas entirely too overwhelming for all of damien's senses on a good day, but the markets. 

gods, the markets.

there's merchants yelling around every corner, stalls loaded with merchandise from far and wide, truly wondrous items of immeasurable worth all gathered around in one place. it is an adventure and a half all by itself to go through there, if you ask him. 

the constant noise and clutter, the people always rushing to go  _ somewhere _ , the sense of urgency, the palpable greed in the air — it leaves him on edge. 

visiting the sapphire avenue is always less than pleasant, so damien tries to be quick about it. it's easy enough to pick up everything on tataru's list, paying what he’s asked with the money she’d given him. it is mostly fabrics and sewing supplies this time, things that make him think of his mother fondly. 

it's with these thoughts in mind that he catches the stray glint of something at the corner of his eye, a modest sized merchant's stall demanding his attention.

a small detour can surely be overlooked.

damien approaches the stall, careful not to bump into any of the other onlookers. the lalafellin merchant looks currently occupied, engaged in conversation with a wealthy looking gentleman, so he gives her a small nod and a polite smile as a way of greeting before he turns his gaze towards what's on display.

it is truly a remarkable amount of variety to look at — jewelry and gems of all colors, ornate daggers and decorative fans, glassworks in artful shapes beyond imagination, parchment of obviously high quality, bottles of ink sparkling and polished—

there is so much more to look at, but his gaze falls back to the glint, as if enchanted. it is such a small thing he has to wonder how he saw it. there lay two brooches of shining gold twined together, pinned to a rich velvet cloth. they resemble lily of the valley blossoms, the stems wrapping intricately around each other, but still obviously capable of being separated. the delicate leaves look like they're made of some precious gem, maybe jade or emerald or some such, and the little bell shaped flowers sparkle in the light, a rainbow of colors reflected on the cloth where they lay.

"pretty, aren't they?" comes an unfamiliar voice, one clearly addressing him.

damien immediately stands up straight, unaware of how just far he'd leaned down to look at the jewelry. he turns to the lalafellin merchant, sheepish. she is looking at him patiently, blue eyes carefully trained on him. she has a certain look about her, one that definitely says she's had her fair share of experiences with customers.

damien feels himself flush involuntarily without even having done anything.

"yes, very." he agrees awkwardly.

"they'd make for a wonderful gift, especially for a loved one." 

it seems that whatever judgment he was being subject to has ended favorably, because her expression seems to light up, an honest glint in her eyes.

"i was thinking—for my mother, maybe. she would—" he fumbles with the strap of his satchel, nervous "like that." he finishes lamely, unable to look the woman in the eye. he stares intently at the intricate piece of jewelry instead.

"how refreshing!" the lalafel exclaims regardless, picking up the brooches in her hand — they are almost the size of her entire palm. she separates them carefully, until two mirror images twinkle in the sunlight.

"you don't see that level of goldsmithing often, even here in ul'dah," she says, clearly proud of her wares. "but you aren't really familiar with things around here, are you, newcomer?"

"you can tell?"

he only gets a look in response; one eyebrow arched masterfully and a twist to her lips, one that says,  _ you aren't fooling anyone _ . she smiles then; leans forward slightly, almost conspiratorial,

"next time you need something, you might wanna come to me first." she says, not unkindly. "pipilota charges entirely too much for what she has on sale." her voice lowers to a whisper as she motions towards the fabrics half-visible in his satchel. then she's standing up straight again, hands outstretched and a big smile on her face, clearly pleased.

"i bet i can fetch you a way better price!" she  _ winks. _

damien kind of just stares at her, entirely too overwhelmed by the whole display.

"i'll take them."

"pardon?"

"i'll take the brooches. and the offer." he finds himself smiling involuntarily, her energy contagious. "may i ask for your name?"

"malaho maho, at your service!" she bows gracefully. damien smiles and bows back.

the brooches cost him a pretty penny in the end, but he thinks of the looks on his mothers' faces when they put them on and does not hesitate. the lalafel is extremely deft with her hands, packing them in a decorative packaging before he can finish counting the coins he has left.

(not many)

"i hope to do business with you again in the near future," malaho says cheerfully as she hands him the small package. "if you have a minute to spare, i'd like to give you something as a thank you for your purchase."

she jumps off her stool with ease and disappears behind her stall for a moment. it is less than a minute after that she reappears, this time with two blue flowers in her hands.

"i'm a bit of a botanist myself and i couldn't help but think that these would match your look perfectly." she stretches out her hands and damien sees the flowers are attached to a small hairpin.

"i've never seen blue arums before," he says with poorly concealed wonder.

the lalafel laughs good-naturedly, a warm glint in her eyes, "seems like i have a talent for finding rarities then."

damien can't help but smile.

  
  


when tataru sends him off to be an errand boy to ul'dah's markets again, he goes willingly and does not complain. it is more enjoyable in pleasant company after all.

  
  
  


(in a tunnel underneath the sultana's palace in ul'dah, lost somewhere between the rubble and the sand; there lay two blue arums tied to a hairpin, crushed nearly beyond recognition, barely more than a mangled splat of color.

their owner mourns the loss only once, briefly, when he's coherent enough to check for head injuries, concussions, any signs of bleeding — he notices then that a familiar weight is gone, undoubtedly lost somewhere among the chaos.

_ a pity _ , he thinks, vitriol eating at his thoughts,  _ one reminder of the good in people gone. _

the storm picks up. camp dragonhead awaits before them, dark and looming.

he does not think of it for a long time. _ ) _

  
  


((it is purely by happenstance that he walks through the higher end of the jeweled crozier one day, aimlessly wandering around ishgard after another one of tataru's trails has gone cold. he's barely looking at the stalls, having no interest in whatever indulgences the fair nobles decide to gorge themselves on today, but just this once he sees something that makes him pause.

he suddenly remembers a conversation from what feels like almost a lifetime ago — two brooches, a pair of blue arums as a gift.

_ they match your hair _ , the lalafel had said with a warm smile. 

and they had. they had.

(maho. her name was malaho maho.)

when he spends a frankly exorbitant amount of gil on a sky blue ribbon with a stylized chocobo pin, he thinks of the good in people and how he'd like to return the compliment.))

(((arums, calla — a symbol of beauty and faithfulness, purity. 

rebirth and resurrection.

the memory feels like a new beginning.)))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO DO YOU HAVE A MOMENT TO TALK ABOUT THE LOVELY MISS MALAHO MAHO—*sniper takes me out*


	4. seasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what's in a year?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, in a pool of blankets: i dont remember the ghimlyt cutscene when alisaie gets snatched, is that even when she gets snatched? im too unfocused to go rewatch it, who cares, YEET

  1. seasons



the wakings sands are hellish in summer — thanalan is bone dry on a good day, but in summer the sun glares endlessly, scorching heat and a burning breeze making it unbearable. 

it makes damien miss the comforting shade of the shroud all the more; the brooks and streams, the constant rustle of leaves and birdsong. it is an ache he feels keenly every time he has to trudge through horizon, sunburnt and dizzy.

he does not know how long the scions intend to keep him around, doesn't really understand what they want with him in the first place, but he hopes he can go home soon. his mother worries and his ma does as well, even if they try not to show it.

damien sighs and fastens the bow on his back. he hopes for a swift journey.

(the sun blazes ever mercilessly upon vesper bay, uncaring of the unmoving bodies lying in the gutters of the waking sands. 

they carry them out in silence and the heat _scorches.)_

* * *

autumn sneaks past almost unnoticed among all the commotion.

the crisp air in mor dhona is a refreshing change damien does not get the chance to truly appreciate, running himself ragged alongside fleance and alphinaud, scrambling to keep hold of too many things at once.

these are better times — the cool comfort of the rising stones, for one, is a blessed change from their previous headquarters, and helping yugiri and the domans settle keeps damien more that occupied enough to forget. there is no blood on the walls here and he hopes it stays that way.

mor dhona might turn out to be a kinder home to the scions, he thinks, hopeful.

* * *

winter descends upon them brutal, angry and howling and ruinous.

the way to ishgard is a struggle, a flurry of sleet and ice a force they can only bear the brunt of, unavoidable. it spares them no quarter, leaves them shaking and shivering with every step forward they take. damien worries for tataru, for how she almost disappears from sight and how she stumbles. he stays closer to her side. at the front, fleance and alphinaud walk ahead, quiet, the wind screaming with a fury.

when they reach the gates, it is a relief. the steps of faith are their last trial and soon after there is warmth, warmth, warmth — fingers thawing and cheeks flushing, a warm fire and a warmer welcome, a safe place to catch their breath.

despite this, the chill remains, seeps down to his bones and clings to his skin no matter where he goes, what he does.

damien takes to wandering around the city under the pretense of gathering information, following rumors. instead, he leans against the stone railing near the tribunal and looks at the winding spires, at the looming statues and the endless horizon, wordless and desperately trying to sort out the things writhing between his ribs, restless and _angry_.

when the man nearby tells him of a duel and a dead heretic's body in the brume, damien goes.

the chill lessens, after that.

(after he finds fray.)

that year, winter stretches on as if forever.

* * *

spring comes gentle, for once.

or, well. 

almost.

winter dies after what feels like decades, leaves them a last bitter farewell as a parting gift — _we did everything that was asked of us, and still,_ still _it came to this! —_ and after, after it comes spring, finally breaking through the cracks and flourishing.

it comes at a price, of course, demands its due in blood and death and endless, ceaseless _fighting_ , but at the end, after a too long voyage and too many losses, they arrive in kugane and spring is there, awaiting them with open arms.

(it's hancock, actually, who awaits them with open arms, but damien prefers to look at the idyllic scenery around them instead, at the gently falling pink petals and the warm breeze; otherwise he might be too inclined to swing his sword at lolorito's lackey, no matter how helpful he might pretend to be.)

but spring? spring he savors.

* * *

it feels like barely a day before warmth settles, gentle and bright.

the steppe stretches out before them with endless fields of green and rolling hills, verdant and blooming and full of life. reunion is a bustle of energy, but so unlike the other merchant squares he knows — there is no clamor and no merchants yelling over each other, no grating noises and palpable tension in the air.

he likes it.

he likes the mol settlement even more.

fleance catches him napping in the sun once, maybe, dozing off and far too open. the grass is soft under him and the air warm, sweet with the scent of blooming flowers. it gets to him, the veneer of tranquility the far east offers them, the anonymity — it makes him lose his head and want to say foolish, ridiculous things; things he has no place to say. 

fleance is radiant here in the summer sun, grinning down at him, freckles on his cheeks and mirth dancing clear in his eyes. damien blinks once, twice, a little dazed at the sight, a little bit tempted to reach for fleance's hand and pull him close, down next to him on the grass, to stop, to rest for once.

instead he shakes his head as if to dispell the thought, and says, his voice too obviously leaden with the remnants of sleep,

"you look awfully pleased with yourself."

"oh, you know," fleance crouches down next to him, rests his bow on the ground and adjusts his hat. he's looked lighter, somehow, ever since he picked up archery again, as if some weight that was clinging to him has lessened. 

it's a good look on him.

that is to say nothing of the new outfit he sports, finally free from the eternal chill in ishgard, his old robes folded neatly and left in fortemps manor, but that is a line of though damien is not quite ready to follow.

fleance rises in a swift motion, stretching languidly, and damien finds his eyes following the curve of his neck, toned arms above his head and his waist, slim and lithe, dexterous archer written clear on every part of him. fleance's shirt rises just the tiniest bit, a bare ilm of skin to be seen.

damien should not sleep in the sun, he concludes — it leaves his throat parched.

"come on, get up," fleance nudges him playfully with his foot, "i kicked hien's ass at hunting and got to laugh at him, but you weren't even there to see it."

"oh, that's a shame i missed it," damien says sincerely. 

fleance reaches out a hand, and damien takes it.

that’s how it goes, in summer.

* * *

the tail-end chill of autumn sneaks by indifferent, trails a touch along his spine and leaves a permanent sense of dread at the edge of his mind. even the constant heat in gyr abania has decided to abandon them, replaced by this — a foul wind carrying the promise of a biting winter and looming war.

ghimlyt is a wreck, charred and barren and reeking of desperation.

damien despises it. despises garlemald even more.

he thinks of fleance when he’d returned from that farce of a peace meeting, pale and a shake in his hands, the twitch of barely restrained impulse. it leaves something in him simmering, a low burning anger he tries to not follow through — regicide would get them nowhere.

at autumn’s last gasp, things come to a head, violent and sudden, too many threads unravelling all at once.

the scions collapsing one by one was worrying to an extent, but watching alisaie slump to the ground, motionless and _empty_ , that leaves him shaken.

the relief he feels when fleance yells from the distance, arrows shrieking through the air; it’s almost enough to make his knees buckle. whichever asican is riding around in zenos’ body has eyes only for him it seems, because he spares damien only a passing look before turning away.

his head thrums and his vision swims, esteem snarling somewhere inside, full of fury. damien watches for a moment as fleance dances around zenos, leads him on a merry dance along the battlefield, swords a hairs breadth away from cutting skin. it makes damien bristle, angry, and he silently asks for forgiveness from alisaie for leaving her body on the ground, but he cannot just watch. 

it is incredibly ironic, then, that it is when he jumps between fleance and ame-no-habakiri to block the blow, steel ringing against enchanted ice, that then fleance clutches his head in pain and stumbles, falling to his knees.

this time, damien does not feel the agony of it, of being torn apart in two. this time, the voice rings clear in his head, commanding but nearing desperation.

he realizes what’s happening only when he catches sight of fleance reaching out a hand towards him, a wild thing burning in his eyes, words he cannot make out. damien wants to reach out, to take a step towards him and—

he blinks and there is only darkness.

and then — light, faint and glittering, beckoning him towards it with a fervor.

he has no choice but to follow.

* * *

(there is no winter on the first.

  
  


there is not much of anything on the first, but it somehow still feels like the arrival of spring when fleance finally finds him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO I KNOW ITS NOVEMBER BUT--
> 
> jk lmao i couldnt manage to do proper woltober bc work kept me too busy but ill just continue to write the prompts and throw them all in here bc yay wols, i love me some catboys, TIME TO WRITE CATBOY LORE


	5. morning / companion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> october is way behind us so im just posting words of self-indulgence out of order now, yeet

19\. morning

the evening fleance departs with alphinaud and estinien on their journey to dravania, damien walks with tataru to the forgotten knight and tries not to think.

he sits with rielle and quietly shows her how to fold roses out of stray napkins, asks her small questions to bridge the gap between them, all the while sidurgu sits there and observes. it is a tentative relationship they're building, but damien enjoys their company. maybe vicious anger gnaws at his chest whenever he thinks of the temple knights hunting a  _ child _ , but when he sits with them and sees rielle doing her best to follow his instructions, a slightly lopsided paper rose in her hands, it makes a fondness overtake it, pleasant and warm.

next to them, tataru charms customers left and right, dances a cheerful little dance she is probably not feeling by half, but that won't stop her. she talks with gibrillont like they're old friends and it's good to see at least one of them in high spirits. tataru's resolve is admirable, he thinks.

then it's late evening and sidurgu and rielle retire for the night, and damien walks with tataru back to fortemps manor. she gives him a questioning look when he takes a step back from the door and says he won't be long, just needs to clear his head, but does not press further. for that, he is glad.

the brume is  _ cold, _ the air bitter and biting, faint mist making everything look that little bit hazy, but it is not important. no, damien leans against the stone wall, frosted wood under his boots, and closes his eyes for a moment, two, three.

the minutes stretch and there is only silence.

it rings deafening.

"you didn't have to leave, you know," he says to no one who can hear. predictably, there is no answer.

the next hours he wanders the cobble streets, directionless and sleepless, too many thoughts pulling him in too many directions,

_ (i should've gone with fleance, what if— _

_ if we die here, will they tell my mother? _

_ can we even go back home after ul'dah? _ _ ) _

but there is one he keeps coming back to, inevitable as the approaching morning light:

_ where did you go? _

  
  


he stumbles to the forgotten knight, the first rays of sunrise behind him, and receives no answer.

it repeats until, one day, he does.

* * *

22\. companion

they are not razor sharp, or wicked, or jagged.

no, they are nothing but slightly elongated nails ending in a point; hardened and thicker than the average, sure, but nothing noteworthy. they are not a weapon.

damien trails his fingers gently over the hand resting in his palms, traces exposed skin up the forearm, soft, warm; keeps returning to bruised knuckles and the not-claws. 

there is blood dried under them.

"it's a damn good last line of defense and you know it." 

it will always be somewhat strange to hear his own voice echo in this empty space they occupy, some undisturbed edge of the void where only they reside. 

it's a trial in itself to find his way here — he has to wander for hours, sleepless, until exhaustion pulls heavy at his very being and his heartbeat pulses deafening like a drum in his head, until he cannot stand anymore and darkness creeps along his vision and, inevitably, he falls; falls and ends up here.

it has been happening more often, as of late.

damien looks at his reflection, at his own eyes and his own face and the expression of endless exasperation on it. he only gives a brittle smile in response, wordless. 

esteem scoffs.

"i thought you'd stopped running away by now?" he pulls his hand away and crosses his arms, clearly unsatisfied with damien's behavior.

"sure," damien shrugs, "i've learned some."

esteem waits for him to continue, one eyebrow raised artfully, conveying more than any word could. it makes him smile, genuine, to see it.

esteem always manages to look so disappointed, and angry, and hurt, and a thousand other adjectives, barely any of them ever positive. 

"doesn't make me wish any less that things could be different." his voice is traitorously wistful and esteem notices, eyes narrowing.

blood in the water.

they should not be a weapon, a last line of defense — they're just nails for twelve's sake. great for picking leaves off of plants, for breaking off fragile stems. damien remembers a time when they were caked with soil and dirt instead, fingertips smeared with tree sap, flecks of green on his clothes.

(it’s blood now, most often; red stains he can't wash away)

they shouldn't be a weapon, he shouldn't have to claw a fanatical temple knight in the face to avoid a sword in his gut, outnumbered and ambushed and alone. he shouldn't have to pick his nails clean, scrape off blood and ichor and— 

he shouldn't.

“but we have to.” esteem’s voice comes out feather soft, a heartbroken statement of fact.

“ignorance is bliss,” damien says, just as quiet. it’s only them anyway.

he thinks of the days before, when he was allowed to be careless, carefree, a boy foraging through the forest to bring his moms the prettiest flowers in all the shroud. there is a lesson about child innocence here, something about purity and taint, something about the world and its cruelty. then he thinks of rielle and her fate, and decides it’s all bullshit anyway.

“we never asked for this knowledge, this fight, i know.”

for once, it is esteem who reaches out.

damien falls into him

(into himself)

and weeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one day...one day theyre gonna Kiss......not today, but one day.........


	6. future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aris: fleance has two hands, one is for damien and the other is for esteem  
> aris: they make a circle  
> me: immediately rushing to establish that dynamic as quickly as possible: yes im listening
> 
> anyway, wolesteem yall

9\. future

the final display at the steps of faith is an indescribable ordeal — too much happens too fast all at once until, finally, thunderous silence.

the song brought to an end.

damien does not remember in detail what must've happened after; remembers relief after a victory that almost cost them too much; remembers estinien before and after, aymeric solemnly carrying his limp form; remembers fleance throwing the eyes into the abyss at aymeric's behest; bruised and bloodied, unsteady on his feet; remembers leaning on his sword, his body heavy and limbs leaden, on the verge of collapse, and then remembers no more.

the rest is hazy, a blur at best, a half-forgotten dream he cannot be sure of. did he imagine scarred hands on his broken skin, fleance a soothing warmth above him, aether pulsing gentle with white magicks, reaching out, mending; or had it been merely delirium and a faceless ishgardian chirurgeon instead? 

damien cannot say.

no, instead he floats in unconsciousness, lost somewhere deep between wakefulness and sleep, a familiar darkness all around him. it feels like eternity passes him by, the slow and steady beat of his heart and the quietness of his breath the only measure of time he has. he counts ten, twenty, thirty, until—

"there you are,"

a voice, soft and familiar, calls out quiet, relieved, reverberating in the dark. a gentle touch lands on his skin, fingers ghosting against his jaw, tangling in his hair, resting among the strands.

"you absolute _idiot_."

damien slowly, sluggishly opens his eyes, and sees—

a reflection.

despair, relief, heartbreak; an expression he cannot name twists esteem's face. it lasts for all of a second before he crumbles, eyes closing and shoulders sagging, his forehead leaning against damien's own. esteem's next breath comes out ragged, his gentle hold turning into something more desperate, something fearful that says, _stay, stay, stay, please, i cannot lose you._

damien feels a smile break across his face, small, knowing, full of open sentiment,

"you taught me not to run away, didn't you?"

esteem shakes.

"that wasn't supposed to mean run off to your death!"

"no, it wasn't," damien agrees quietly. he raises a hand, mirroring esteem, resting it on his cheek before continuing, "but i had steadfast allies," he thinks of fleance, emboldened by the eye, arrows never missing their mark, "and i knew i had you too. tell me, was there anything to be afraid of?" 

there is an incredulous laugh in response, one bordering on hysteria, 

"you're unbelievable." 

esteem loosens his hold, lets his head drop on damien's shoulder, breath fanning his neck. he feels it when esteem slumps against him, tension coiled tight finally dissipating, limbs curling loose around his waist. they fall in a lull, just there, holding each other, together, existing.

damien lets it, gives esteem time to sort through all the fear, the relief. it feels as if it cannot reach him, for once too drunk on the joy of having survived, of having fought with a second presence at his side, unwavering, resolute.

it burns low within him, a constant warmth at the edge of his consciousness. _flame in the abyss,_ sidurgu had called it, and in the end wasn't it—

"hey, where did you go? come, look at me," damien tugs gently at esteem, nudges him until he meets his eyes, and the sight of him kindles the thing in his chest, sparks flickering in his lungs, embers glowing.

esteem's eyes are ablaze.

"don't you dare ever—"

"i won't."

they both know it's a hollow promise.

this newfound weight resting on their shoulders, on fleance's — it will not give them reprisal, not when they make such good pawns, much too valuable to let go of. it does not matter what they have to say, what they might happen to want; now they are warriors of light, and the title rests like chains around their feet, a noose getting tighter with each battle.

esteem says nothing for a long while. damien holds him close, hand tangled in his hair, rubbing gently along his ears, and waits.

time is different when they are together, he has noticed. sometimes their meetings go on as if for hours, when in reality barely minutes have passed; sometimes not. but this time; this time something is different — something teetering perilously close to an edge, a charge in the air that fills him with unknown anticipation. 

esteem moves.

"why did you come here?" his voice is curious, something prickly and hurt just at the edge of it. he looks at damien, gaze piercing, as if damien has any incentive to lie.

"why wouldn't i? where else would i go?" he says in response, as if it's not obvious.

it seems to be the right answer, for as soon as he says it the sparks catch, the kindling is engulfed in flames, and esteem—

kisses him.

it is not graceful, nor is it a good kiss. 

no, it is a thing born of too many emotions, a dam that's finally broken; a press of lips that's more teeth than anything — until esteem pulls back and there is a second kiss, a third, a fourth; each sweeter than the last, slower, more restrained, savoring.

"finally you understand," esteem's words drag against damien's lips, such tremendous relief in them.

and what a sight the two of them make — mirror images, tangled together like lovers. they are two and they are one, aren't they? in hindsight there could've been nothing else but this for them. 

_is this narcissism_ , damien wonders for a second before the thought vanishes, lost among the warmth spreading through his veins, the truth that rings loud in his mind:

_i love you, i love you, i love you_

it does not matter who says it, who takes the first step to bridge the gap, for they have already reached the goal long ago. 

esteem leans in again and damien meets him halfway.

  
  
  


(when he wakes, he finds himself in a bed. 

he looks through half-lidded eyes and sees a blur of white hair next to him, a familiar shape that can only be fleance. his eyes are closed and his breathing steady; asleep.

damien blinks, dazed, eyes unused to the pale morning light after such a time. he feels disoriented, the room unfamiliar but still unmistakably ishgardian. his entire body _aches,_ sore beyond anything he has felt before, and it only serves to remind him, _nidhogg, estinien, the steps, we all fought—_

there is a faint pressure against his lips, a farewell kiss he can barely feel, and it reminds him of the rest too — esteem in the dark with him, a safe haven, warmth, a flame that blazes high where they meet.

the path they walk is perilous, what awaits them in the future uncertain, but for now damien smiles, reassured.

"it took us both almost dying to make you smile? really now, are my jokes that bad?"

fleance, groggy, eyes barely open, but his wits clearly all about him, no matter how much a mess he looks.

it’s charming.

damien smiles wider, all his walls down, and reaches out, reaches for the hand closest to him across the white sheets, holds on feather-light to a scarred palm.

"i always smile at your jokes."

"what, internally?"

“yes.”

somewhere in the dark, esteem laughs.

the sound is bright.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me two weeks ago, making damien blonde as a joke:  
> aris: ok but what if--  
> me, now, with lore for blonde damien compiled: so what if esteem got to keep his blue hair. what if they k--*sniper takes me out*
> 
> anyway, they kissed.

**Author's Note:**

> featuring my catboy wol lite, damien, and my lovely pal [aris'](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris/pseuds/Aris) wonderful catboy wol, fleance! they're bros. and also maybe boyfriends. we're figuring it out
> 
> anyway, find me on twitter where i yell about a lot of xiv things [here](https://twitter.com/eeustomas/)


End file.
